Something About Elves
by FlashFiction
Summary: "Thank God for books." For some reason, it had never occurred to Irma Pince that Minerva McGonagall might worship at the same temple.


**Author's Note: **I've been wanting to write this story for a long time. As some of you may know by now, I'm a massive Minerva fan; she's kind of my fictional hero. Irma Pince is a character that interests me, and not just in a weird, crack romance with Filch kind of way. In my mind, the two women definitely have similarities and I thought it would be interesting to examine. It felt a bit weird writing McGonagall instead of Minerva, but I felt it suited the story better.

The steady, constant ticking of the second hand, as it made its way around the clock face, was all that broke the thick, heavy silence of the library. The dim candle light cast a golden haze over the bookcases, the corners of the shelves and the small gaps between each book melting away into shadows. It was empty, the desks standing alone, unused, the odd forgotten quill littering the wooden surfaces. Well, it was not completely empty; a solitary figure stood, returning books to their rightful places, levitating them gracefully into the air with a slow swish of her wand, before letting them slide on the higher shelves. Irma Pince was, however, with her black hair pulled back from her face and her dark, sharp eyes, so much a part of the library, that her presence there hardly seemed to give it life. She moved between the aisles in an almost mechanical way, many years of service imprinting the different areas into her body, taking her where she needed to be before she even requested to be there.

Finishing her task, Irma swept back to the library desk, taking a seat behind it. Perched on a high stool, she flicked through the register, refreshing her mind on the books that had been taken and the ones that would need to be returned. There had been rather a large increase in the amount of people using the library recently, something that Irma both hated and loved. Any student who chose books over Quidditch, or any other such ridiculous activity, was finally seeing the blindingly obvious light, in Irma's opinion. But more students meant there was a higher chance of somebody abusing the space, which was blasphemy to a woman who considered it her temple. And, if anything, the subject matter that was most commonly checked out was not encouraging; Dark Arts material, that had been restricted under Professor Dumbledore, was now freely available to students of any age. Irma had not approved, but Professor Snape, now headmaster, had been very insistent, though she expected he was acting on behalf of one or other of the Carrows.

The Carrows. Irma almost shivered, despite the pleasant temperature of the air around her. She never had much time for people, not with her experiences of them. She never really liked them, but that also meant she never really hated them either; it took too much energy. But the Carrows, well, they were different. Amycus, the brother, was a heathen, who probably couldn't read two words together, let alone appreciate what they meant. Alecto, the sister, was brighter, much brighter. Irma had almost hoped that, despite her dubious allegiance, she might've been able to tolerate her. But that was not going to happen, something made very clear when Alecto, who, as it turned out, had little time for reading, had burnt most of the Muggle literature in the Muggle Studies room. Irma had been beside herself; she wasn't a political woman, nor was she religious or even particularly morally straight, but if there was one thing she believed outrightly it was that books, of any kind, were sacred. It wasn't often that the strict librarian was moved to tears, but the sight of the printed words, screaming to tell their stories as they were unceremoniously consumed by the gloating flames, had caused her eyes to burn more furiously than the fire, and she had had to retreat to her room.

Breaking the quiet, a hushed cough announced the arrival of somebody to the library. Irma looked up from her work and was surprised to see Minerva McGonagall standing before her. The other woman was, to her knowledge, a great reader, but was one who utilized her own extensive collection before that which the library offered. Because of this, Irma did not know the witch well. Neither went out of the way to speak to the other so, aside from negotiating appropriate punishments for rule breakers, Irma could probably count the number of significant conversations they'd had on her fingers.

"Professor?" Irma asked, her eyes scanning the woman up and down.

It occurred to her that the teacher looked nervous, her deep, dark, blue eyes darting around, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Upon meeting McGonagall, even if it was only a glimpse for a second, one could always tell that she was a person of immense strength and power. The shade of her eyes demanded attention and something in the way she held herself commanded respect. But, no, there it was again; an alertness that came from fear rather than intelligence. Something was troubling her, even someone as uninterested in the human condition as Irma could see it.

"May I speak with you, Madame Pince?" McGonagall said, her voice not betraying the anxiety that the rest of her did, "It is a matter of some urgency."

Irma surreptitiously looked at the clock; she had been hoping to lock up the library and retire to her room. Suppressing a sigh, she nodded. If it had been anyone other than McGonagall, they'd have been sent away and told to return at a more reasonable hour.

"I hoped we could talk in private?" McGonagall said.

"We're hardly in a crowd," Irma replied sardonically.

That remark, however, received an extremely reproachful look, so the witch got from her seat, with a small sigh, and ushered the other into her office, which was situated through a door just behind the desk.

Once inside, Irma closed the door. She was about to speak, when McGonagall reached into the fold of her long robes and pulled out a stack of books, of varying sizes and colours, and dropped them down on the table. Irma's eyebrows went up; the awkward way in which McGonagall had been holding her hands was now explained.

"I thought you might like to see these," McGonagall said, rather breathlessly, clearly glad to set her cargo down.

Irma cautiously went over to the table. As soon as she began to spread the books out, her semi-permanent frown melted away, replaced by a look of awe and excitement. All bound different ways depending on their ages, but all in excellent condition, were _Pride and Prejudice _by Jane Austen, _The Great Gatsby _by F. Scott Fitzgerald, _The Complete Works of William Shakespeare_, a collection of Romantic poetry and Tolkien's _The Lord of the Rings_. Irma blinked several times, before taking up each work in turn and examining it carefully; to her complete delight, _Pride and Prejudice_, leather bound in three volumes, was a first edition.

"How did you get these?" Irma breathed, unable to voice the extent of what she feeling.

"I liberated them from the Muggle Studies room," the Deputy Head explained, "Charity always kept certain items in a back cupboard, so they escaped Alecto's purge."

Irma wondered how the previous Muggle Studies teacher had managed to keep these a secret from everyone, although she couldn't blame her; if she had prizes like this in her possession, she wouldn't be sharing them with anyone. Minerva McGonagall, on the other hand, was sharing. Irma looked up at the witch, full of gratitude. But the other witch wasn't looking at her; she was staring, in a fond way, down at the books. Irma smiled; here was, clearly, a kindred spirit. She picked up the Austen book and sighed a sigh of content, gently turning to the first page.

"You know," Irma said, her eyes still glancing over the pages, "Mr Darcy was the man I spent the entirety of my youth waiting for."

She expected the woman, one who was known for her no nonsense approach, to laugh or scoff, but she didn't. She simply nodded. Irma raised an eyebrow, in a question. McGonagall smiled, looking sheepish and, yet, looking twenty years younger.

"Aragorn, son of Arathorn," she said, running a finger over _The Lord of the Rings_, "I fully intended to be the Queen of Gondor one day."

"I was always a Legolas girl," Irma admitted, "There's just something about Elves."

"Something about Elves," McGonagall echoed in agreement.

The two women looked at each other and burst into peels of girlish laughter. Irma felt happier than she had in months; somehow the simple joy of holding a good book and discussing impossible romances with somebody who understood, _really_ understood, eclipsed all the bad things that had happened.

"When I was a child," McGonagall said quietly, "my father used to read me that book."

She pointed at the one that Irma was still holding.

"When I finally decided that I was going to give it a chance (which took a little while, I can tell you) I didn't want it to end," she continued, "Youth, hm? Wasted on the young."

"Quite," Irma said.

It was a foolish thing, but Irma had never thought, at any point, of the professor as a child. Of course, she would've been one, at some point, but, looking at the face that was lined with years and hardened with pain, it was difficult to see.

"Thank God for books, though," McGonagall said, as if she had guessed what her companion was thinking, "I can be as young as I like in them."

"Not to mention you can go anywhere," Irma added, "with very little inconvenience."

"See anything."

"Try everything."

"Love who you want to-"

"-with no fear that they might leave you."

The librarian sighed.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"Don't mention it," was the reply she received, the words full of kindness and understanding.

Irma had been right; Minerva was a kindred spirit. Minerva. Somehow, after talking to her like this, the name seemed to suit her better, to roll more easily from Irma's tongue. The teacher was no longer a distant and feared creature; she was just Minerva. Minerva. Minerva, wife of Aragorn son of Arathorn, Queen of Gondor.


End file.
